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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29933232">because of who we are</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellowshipper/pseuds/fellowshipper'>fellowshipper</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And Jono is a jerk, Bobby is a hopeless romantic, Complicated Relationships, M/M, POV First Person, so what else is new</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:34:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,124</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29933232</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellowshipper/pseuds/fellowshipper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After several years' absence, Jono returns to the X-Men, and to the school, as if nothing ever happened, like a ghost returning to haunt its old home. </p><p>Bobby Drake has Thoughts (tm) about this new development.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bobby Drake/Jono Starsmore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>because of who we are</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivulet027/gifts">Rivulet027</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/241908">All My Friends</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivulet027/pseuds/Rivulet027">Rivulet027</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is largely inspired by (and is an unofficial sequel to) Rivulet027's "All My Friends." While reading that one is not strictly necessary to understand this one, I wholeheartedly encourage you to go read it anyway for its own sake and to get a little bit of context for this story. </p><p>M is for a few sexual references (not explicit, just mentioned in passing), some language, but mostly references to depression and self-harm. If those are triggers for you, please proceed with caution and your own best judgment. </p><p>As always, text in angle brackets indicate Jono's telepathic speech.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I don’t know when I developed such a masochistic streak or why I insist on beating my head against the same wall over and over again, but here I am anyway, equal parts anxious, excited, hopeful, and pessimistic. Underlying all of it is this thread of resignation, of dread, of the certainty that no good can possibly come from any of this, and I’m okay with it. I have to be. I won’t be able to face him if I’m not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks older, despite the fact I don’t think his body even </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>age normally anymore. Maybe it’s the hair. It’s not the mess of wild, tangled curls I remember. The curls have relaxed into soft waves, but maybe he just bothered to run a comb through them for once. I used to annoy him by doing it myself (same way I annoyed him with everything, same way I annoy everyone, it seems). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as often, though, I wouldn’t use anything but my fingers. On days when he was too depressed to even drag himself into the shower, I’d spend the day in bed with him, spending an ungodly amount of time detangling the curls and then combing them out with my hands. It always seemed to soothe him, and usually it ended up putting him to sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not sure how I feel about the more relaxed look now. I always knew he didn’t need me, but visual proof is still pretty jarring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s hard to tell from my spot at the back of the room, but I could almost swear he’s put on weight. Again, that shouldn’t be possible, but he doesn’t look as skeletal as before. Still skinny as hell, a fact only made more obvious by the ridiculously tight jeans he’s wearing, but not sickly thin anymore. Less like a scrawny, gawky bird in a half-assed human costume, at least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nose is still the same, though, that same long, thin beak. So not entirely un-birdlike. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not just his appearance, though. It’s the way he carries himself. His shoulders aren’t hunched forward, like he’s trying to curl in on himself and keep anyone from looking at him for too long. In fact, they’re way more relaxed than I can remember seeing them before. His arms are folded over his chest, but it’s not defensive so much as just for comfort and from habit, from what I can tell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s listening to some student’s long-winded retelling of a date from the weekend, and I’m reminded once again of how damn expressive he can be with just half his face. His eyebrows do a great job of telling a story and reflecting the appropriate amount of interest to show he’s listening. It’s convincing enough that I could almost believe he hasn’t tuned out and really is paying attention to this kid’s story. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hell, who knows? Maybe he really is. I never expected him to show back up to teach, of all things, so maybe there’s even more to him to figure out. It’s not like he’s ever been especially forthcoming. I’m not naïve enough to think sleeping with someone has to mean anything more than that, but we were . . . </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>friends, I guess, and I feel like I know nothing about him. He’s only ever told me small details about his life before his powers surfaced, and while I get that remembering that stuff and talking about it probably hurts, I’d still like to know more about him. I know he’s an only child from a family that always thought it was better off than it really was. I know he was in a band at some point, which isn’t surprising at all. Other than that, though? Total puzzle. I have no idea what he was like in school, what kind of people he hung out with, how he got into music, if he has </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>happy childhood memories, whatever. I know exactly how he sounds when he comes, but I don’t even know his middle name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jono. A teacher. Not just that, but teaching self-conscious teenagers how to love themselves, or at least how to make peace with their mutations. The universe really does work in mysterious ways. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, I can’t say he doesn’t seem like a natural, and that’s the most shocking part of it all. Not knowing he’s back, not seeing him for the first time in three years, none of that. Just seeing him at ease for once. Comfortable in his own skin. Literally. It’s surprising, but in the best possible way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The speakers start playing the series of tones indicating class is over, and while most of the students head out into the hall, a couple hang back to chat with Jono. With “Professor Starsmore,” which sounds delightfully ridiculous. If I didn’t already know he was English, I’d give anyone with that name a British accent anyway. A really posh, snobby one, not his, which I’ve affectionately told him makes him sound like a character in a Guy Richie movie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a good joke. I don’t know why he’s never laughed at it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even those students wander out eventually, leaving just me. And him. And awkward silence. Three years’ worth of it, in fact, and I find myself getting pissed off, not for the first time, that he couldn’t even be bothered to send me a text now and then to let me know he was alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;&lt;You gonna say anything or just stare at me?&gt;&gt;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His back is to me as he pretends to rearrange papers on his desk, and I’m sorely tempted to chuck something at his head. I’m somewhat more mature than his students, though, so I keep my hands (and projectiles) to myself. I also keep those three years’ worth of words to myself, no matter how much I want to tell him I’ve missed him, that I’m glad he’s back, that I’m mad as hell that he just fell off the face of the planet, that I wish he hadn’t come back because he deserves better than this place, that I don’t want him to leave again, that whatever was going on between us is over and dead, that whatever was going on between us was great and I’m up for resuming it, that whatever was going on between us has kept me up more nights than I want to admit and that I’ve missed </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nope. That’s what comes out instead. All these other, better options, and that’s all I can spit out.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;&lt;Hey.&gt;&gt;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s never been much of a talker, at least not around me (and I even got more than most), but this is a joke. I feel my eyes roll around in my head as I get up from the desk I’ve commandeered and move toward him. I almost stop when he shifts and looks at me, but I keep moving. I shouldn’t be uncomfortable around him, and not just because I’ve had his dick in my mouth on multiple occasions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Truth is, I’ve never been uncomfortable around him, even way back when he was a student at the Massachusetts Academy. From the first time I guest lectured, he just radiated enough hostility and bitterness to scare off anyone who so much as looked in his direction. But even I, someone so lacking psychic powers as to be pathetic, could tell there was something else to it, something raw and aching and scared. He was young. Hurting. Afraid of the new world he’d been dropped into and even more afraid of himself. I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>much older than him; I remembered how that felt, but I had the advantage of being able to cry or scream or drink myself unconscious to try to cope. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moved to the big leagues a couple years later, and while he didn’t stick around long, it was enough for me to get more of a handle on him. He’s got a wicked sense of humor, dark and dry as coal. Where everyone else saw this brooding, dour killjoy, I found out there was actually a pretty funny person in there who could crack one-liners with me--and at me--and who seemed to enjoy trading insults. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I found a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>person, despite his claims to the contrary. He hates himself and isn’t especially fond of most others, but he’ll go out of his way to help you. Granted, he’ll whine and bitch and moan and generally make you regret ever asking for his help, but he’ll do it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I found a talented musician who can hear something once and then figure out how to play it on a guitar or a piano just by ear, from memory. On good days, he let me listen to demos he still had from his band days. Most of the songs were old-school punk style, the kind no one sounds pretty in, but there were a few slower, quieter ones that really let him show off his singing. He had such a beautiful voice. It was hard to reconcile that perfectly smooth tenor with the raspier, more offkey style music he preferred, or with . . . everything else about him, really. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>good days, he even let me watch the few videos from his gigs. He was just a kid at the time, sixteen, seventeen, somewhere around there, but he showed so much promise. He was born to be on stage with a guitar in his hands and a crowd in his palms. Even with the crappy acoustics of the bars that really shouldn’t have let him in in the first place, there was no hiding that talent or how happy he was to perform. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We bonded over music. Turns out he’s one of the few who actually means it when he says he listens to a bit of everything. He mocked me for my tastes, because of course he did, but he used that to introduce me to some other acts I’d never heard of and ended up really getting into. At one point, we drove into New York to see one of those acts live, and when I noticed how enthralled he was and how desperate he looked to be up there instead of watching from the crowd, I took his hand and squeezed. I’m still surprised he didn’t push me off and leave right then. But he always seems to do the opposite of what I expect, so he held on until we left to go home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was so late by the time we got back to the school that I passed out in his room. When I woke up, I learned he’s a clinger in his sleep, like some kind of needy, affection-starved octopus. I pretended to still be asleep, just to give him an excuse to hold onto me without needing to feel embarrassed, until he told me he knew I’d woken up almost two hours earlier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We still didn’t get out of bed for another hour. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were so many long nights and lazy days after that where we just lounged around. Sometimes we didn’t even talk; I had to get used to the quiet, since that’s not something that comes naturally to me, but it wasn’t as weird as I thought it would be. We talked sometimes, obviously, but never about work. Never about our lives at the school. We talked about which movies we wanted to see, which TV show we wanted to binge next, which books on Jono’s shelves he’d actually read and which ones were just for the sake of appearances. He’s a surprisingly avid reader, it turns out. I still have a few of his books in my room that I borrowed and never gave back. Maybe if I don’t, he’ll come back for them if he leaves again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t think either of us expected anything to come of any of it. Just two lost souls in a fishbowl and all that. And even when things started turning sexual--not just physical contact, which was there almost from the start--I don’t think it occurred to either of us that it was anything but two lonely people trying to be a little less lonely and satisfying some urges in the process. And maybe that’s all it ever was to him. I don’t know. The lack of communication since he left certainly doesn’t inspire confidence that it ever meant half as much to him as it did to me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But why </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>it mean more to me? He was frustrating, secretive, grouchy, prone to terrible mood swings; half the time, I felt like I had to walk on eggshells around him, as the smallest, most benign remark could set him off into a spiral of petty anger or, worse, one of his depressive episodes. I don’t hold that against him. It’s not his fault he’s got issues. Probably his fault he refuses any kind of help with them, but I can’t blame him for the problems themselves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But for all those bad days, the ones where if he even let me in his room at all, the only thing I could do was hold him and reassure him that he’d feel better eventually, there were good days. Great days, actually, days when he let me rope him into a prank or when he showed up at my bedroom door, practically bouncing on his heels with nervous energy and yammering in my head about this new album that just dropped by some band I’d never heard of but which obviously meant a lot to him. Days when he let me pull him outside for a walk down to the lake--days when he slipped his hand into mine on the way and politely ignored the stupid grin on my face whenever it happened. Days when he’d go for a drive with me and tease me by acting like he forgot which side of the road he was supposed to drive on, and we’d just drive and drive for hours, just to get away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first time we had sex was on one of those trips, in fact, and I told him after, only half-joking, that our first time shouldn’t have been in a motel bed somewhere in Philadelphia with a broken spring and two rungs missing from the headboard. He’d just laughed in that odd telepathic non-laughing way and said we should go again to see if we could break another spring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We didn’t, nor did it happen on the third round, but it for damn sure wasn’t for lack of trying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were great days with lazy mornings where we stayed in bed not because he didn’t have the mental energy to make himself get up, but just because we were comfortable and more interested in feeling each other up during the commercial breaks of whatever was on TV in the background. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were quiet, more serious nights, like the one where I had too much to drink and told him everything about my powers getting out of control. I hadn’t planned to, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>hadn’t planned on breaking down and crying under the weight of all the fear I’d been carrying around, but he understood. I knew he would. If anyone in that entire place would, it would be him. He held me until I stopped crying, then kept holding until I stopped shaking, and then still kept holding me until my mind calmed down. He said he didn’t do anything, but I know a telepath’s presence when I feel it, and I definitely felt wisps of calming thoughts and emotions against the edges of my mind. They weren’t as good as his hand rubbing my back or his nose rubbing against the side of my head, but I appreciated them anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now he stands here looking at me like I’m any other former teammate coming by to exchange pleasantries. Like he hasn’t held me when I started having a panic attack about the very real possibility of being killed by my powers. Like I haven’t held </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>and kissed his face and his hands. Like I haven’t traced the old, faded scars on his arms and made him swear to me that he’d come find me if he ever felt the need to make new ones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can’t help looking at his arms now, covered by sleeves as usual, and wonder if there are new marks after all, or if maybe he really has come back to me first like he said he would. </span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>&lt;&lt;I see you got the whole human icicle thing fixed,&gt;&gt;</em> he says, glancing directly at my chest in a way that makes me feel exposed down to the bone. It takes every bit of willpower I have to keep from folding my arms over my chest. He doesn’t get to see my heart anymore, literally or otherwise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. It was touch and go for a while, but . . . yeah.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hate how stupid I feel around him. It’s not the same kind of stupid I feel around Hank or other literal geniuses. It’s almost the same kind of stupid I feel around Emma, that feeling that I’m being judged no matter what I say. Makes sense, given he used to be her student, but I never slept with Emma, so there’s a whole other level of bullshit on top. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’d gotten past that. It took work, but we’d finally reached a point where I didn’t feel like an ant under a magnifying glass when he looked at me, where his eyes were softer and warmer than before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t see any of that progress now, and since I know he’s terrible at hiding anything . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods and shakes the papers against the desk again to align the edges, which he’s already done twice now. <em>&lt;&lt;Good. Glad to hear it.&gt;&gt;</em> He looks over at me again, a line I don’t remember seeing before creasing in his forehead before disappearing again. <em>&lt;&lt;So you’re, uh, doing okay then?&gt;&gt;</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, not too bad. I mean, I’m teaching high school math and kind of want to donate my body to science just to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>teach high school math anymore, but I’m getting by.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s one of those tell-tale eyebrow lifts and a slight softening at the corners of his eyes, his version of a chuckle. I imagine that at some point, it would have been accompanied by a small, kind of crooked grin. He had a nice smile. I’ve seen pictures. The two bottom teeth in the front were a little crooked, which he’d told me he missed only because he’d never need a passport again if he still had them. He could just smile, say he was British, and be waved on through. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a stupid joke that relied on cheap stereotypes. The worst kind of joke. I’d laughed at it anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few seconds, when it becomes clear he doesn’t intend to return the favor or even hold up his end of the conversation, I clear my throat. When </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn’t work, I ask him outright how he’s been. I get some kind of wishy washy crap back and keep my eyes fixed on him, pinning him to the spot. I’m not the most intimidating guy around, but it works well enough. He breaks eye contact after a while to look down at the stack of papers, almost like he’s debating fidgeting with them again. And somehow, even though his voice is broadcast directly into my brain, I swear it sounds like he’s whispering when he finally decides to answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;&lt;This place is a fucking blackhole.&gt;&gt;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I wait as patiently as I can for an explanation that doesn’t happen. Instead, he grabs his coat off the back of his chair, pulls it on, and zips it up without even looking at me. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;&lt;Pryde’s busy and asked me to proctor an exam for her during my free period.&gt;&gt;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s the third day of classes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>&lt;&lt;Which makes it all the more insane that I agreed to it.&gt;&gt;</em> He barely stops himself from playing with the belt of his jacket before shoving his hands into the pockets. <em>&lt;&lt;It’s good seeing you again, mate. I’m glad you’re doing okay. We’ll catch up sometime, yeah?&gt;&gt;</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>I just manage to get out an “okay” by the time he darts out the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. That answers as many questions as it raises. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The lake on the grounds is weirdly shaped. It’s the surest sign that the Professor was being honest when he said it was natural and not man-made, because no one would give it all those little nubs that jut out at random. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of those nubs on the east side of the lake is so surrounded by trees that it’s easy to miss unless you’re actively looking for it. The dock is on the south side; the eastern side has mostly been left alone, given over to the deer and squirrels as a peace offering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This weird little nub is quiet, secluded, and just happens to have the best view of the sunset anywhere on campus. I found it when I was a kid, right after I first came to the school. I used to hide out when I needed to get away from everything, and as I got a little braver, I’d practice using my powers. It’s where I learned how to freeze a large body of water. When my powers started turning on me, when I found out I could manipulate water without actually completely freezing it, I used this lake to practice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was where I took Jono when he needed to get out of the school because he couldn’t focus enough to block out everyone’s thoughts. For all his protests at being a “shit telepath,” as he phrased it, he was never just the “radio broadcasting into the abyss,” another phrase he used to describe his particular method of speaking. He could do anything any other telepath could, if on a smaller scale and without as much finesse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While the psychic side of his powers normally didn’t seem to bother him, there were days he was too busy dealing with his own crap to handle everyone else’s, when even the noise of a radio and a television simultaneously couldn’t keep him from burrowing under the covers and trembling because the thoughts of everyone else in the school were drowning out those noises and even his own thoughts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I took him out to the lake on those days, when I could talk him into it, and rubbed his neck until his shoulders finally dropped into a normal position and he didn’t look like he was trying to squeeze his eyes out the back of his head anymore. After a while, it became a place of refuge in general, just somewhere to go for some peace and quiet (and the occasional handjob, because we’re still trash).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So it’s no surprise when I reach the spot, </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>spot that became </span>
  <em>
    <span>our </span>
  </em>
  <span>spot, and see a familiar shape framed by a couple enormous oak trees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not quiet or subtle, so I don’t feel the need to announce myself. The twigs and leaves I’ve stepped on have already done that for me, along with the bird I startled into flying away. He knows I’m here, but he doesn’t move. Just stays there on the bank, one knee pulled halfway to his chest, arm draped over top. His other hand is planted behind him, bracing him so that he can lean back. He looks peaceful. Casual. Like he’s not looking for company, but maybe he won’t mind it, either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few seconds, I notice a tendril of energy sneaking out from in front of him, then another, another. They’re hard to see against the sunset, but between the sun and his powers, he’s practically glowing, a living flame shaped like a human. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s never believed me, but I’ve always thought his powers are amazing. Terrifying, yes. Tragic, yes. I understand why he hates them. But God, the rare instances where he’s let me see him without the wraps, when he’s not using his mutation to destroy but just existing, he’s gorgeous. Something ethereal and tempting with how beautiful and deadly he is, like the kind of thing people write poems about. Other people. Not me. I just stare and say something dumb about it being pretty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he’s not deadly. He’s not some obscure artifact for poets to wet themselves over. He’s not some unstoppable force of nature. He’s just Jono, the same dork who claims to have no idea where all those Harry Potter books on his shelves came from (including the fancy bound editions) and who knows an obscene amount of Star Wars trivia. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’s here. He’s back, he’s here, and he’s going to break my heart all over again, even if I still can’t admit he did it once to begin with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>&lt;&lt;I didn’t want to do it.&gt;&gt;</em> I jump at the unexpected voice dropping into my head. Jono still doesn’t move. <em>&lt;&lt;Break your heart, I mean. I’m sorry. But I did tell you from the start that you were making a mistake.&gt;&gt;</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>I want to grumble about him poking around in my head, but it’s also entirely possible I’m projecting loudly enough for every telepath in the state to hear me right now, so I let it go. He seems to appreciate that, as he drops his knee and stretches his leg out in front of him but otherwise doesn’t move as if to run away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not a good listener,” I say as I walk closer, but I don’t dare to sit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks over at my shoes but not any higher. <em>&lt;&lt;That’s not true. I think you’re a very good listener.&gt;&gt;</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not looking and doesn’t see it, but I shrug anyway. “Well, maybe I’m just not good at following directions. Or warnings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something like television fuzz goes off in my brain, a noise I recognize as his version of conveying laughter, or at least amusement, and he finally drags his eyes from my shoes up to my face. <em>&lt;&lt;So what you’re saying is I shouldn’t be too offended if you keep standing there like a creep instead of sitting down when I ask you to.&gt;&gt;</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a formal invitation, but I’ll take it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I drop down onto the ground next to him, refusing to dwell on how close we are physically and yet how much space is between us. We say nothing, both of us just watching the ducks paddle around the lake, and it feels good. Safe. Feels like old times, and for just a few seconds, I can let myself think nothing has changed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then I see a new scar on his wrist, red and ugly and jutting out from under the end of his long sleeve.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before I can stop myself, I reach out to touch it, and he immediately tenses under my fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought I told you to come back </span>
  <em>
    <span>before </span>
  </em>
  <span>that happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t answer, not right away, and almost a minute passes before he says anything more. <em>&lt;&lt;It was an accident.&gt;&gt;</em> I bite my tongue and wait, unsure if he’s being dramatic or genuinely trying to find the right words. Either way, he’ll shut up entirely if I push. Found that one out the hard way. <em>&lt;&lt;I was putting a shelf up in my room the other night. Didn’t screw something in right and it fell. Tried to catch it and the edge got me.&gt;&gt;</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a good story. Plausible. Innocent. And complete horseshit. I’d buy it from almost anyone else, but not him. </span>
  <span>But again, I also know better than to push. He’ll tell me the truth when he’s ready. If he’s ready. Learned </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>the hard way, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So I do what I always did before. I wrap my fingers around his wrist, still so thin (if not as delicate as before), as if I can hold him together that way. He doesn’t pull away, and eventually, he even relaxes, the taut muscles in his arm loosening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s been bad for you,” I point out, not accusing, not shaming, just observing. He still doesn’t say anything, but I’ve seen the way his eyes drop like that when he knows I’m right and doesn’t want to acknowledge it. I rub my thumb against the new mark. “Did you find what you were looking for? Whatever that was?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;&lt;Obviously not. Wouldn’t be back here if I had done.&gt;&gt;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone who didn’t know him well enough would be put off by that. I kind of am, can’t lie. But it lacks the usual heat and cruelty of his intentional barbs. I’ve been on the receiving end of them enough to know when he’s aiming to draw blood and when he’s just lashing out from pure habit. This is the latter, and so I just roll with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you even know what you’re looking for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goes quiet again, tacit admission that I’ve hit a bullseye. I feel a little mean for it, but he owes me after three years of total silence. Speaking of which . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess you also never thought to look for a cell tower.” He looks over at me, brow creased as if he doesn’t know exactly what I mean, and I shake my head to keep him from playing dumb. “I thought we were friends. I thought . . . a lot of things, actually, but at the </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>least, I thought we were friends. You just left. For </span>
  <em>
    <span>three years</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jono. The only reason I knew you were even still alive was because you popped up in briefings now and then when we got updates about the other teams.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take a deep breath, trying to choke back every thought I’ve had about him in the last few years, but it all comes pouring out anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I heard about what happened after M-Day. Do you have </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>idea how bad I wanted to see you? I visited you in the hospital, and . . . fuck, it hurt, but I didn’t . . . I wanted you to know someone was there. I heard about what happened after that, too. Still wanted to see you. I’ve wondered what your real voice sounds like. I thought about tracking you down, just showing up and demanding a live performance.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanted to kiss you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dammit. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He flinches and starts to draw his hand back, but I just hold on tighter, daring him to rip himself away from me just like he did last time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you know what I wanted more than anything? I wanted to hear from you. I just wanted to know that you were okay. And goddammit, Jono, I just wanted to know I ever meant enough to warrant at least a text message, an email, a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>postcard</span>
  </em>
  <span>, anything!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever kind of catharsis I was expecting to get out of that is outweighed by the frustration and exhaustion I feel so often when dealing with him. He’s worth it. He’s always been worth it to me. But for someone I care so much about, he makes it really damn hard to be cared for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m not expecting an apology or even an explanation. I don’t know what I’m expecting, really. The familiar buzz I always get around him, a side effect of his powers, goes away, proof that he’s withdrawing into himself again. Aaaand there he goes, pulling away physically as well and getting to his feet with a quick <em>&lt;&lt;sorry&gt;&gt;</em> tossed into my brain. It’s so caught up in every other emotion and not-thought that I almost miss it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’re running away again,” I throw out, more tired than angry now, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>what seems to finally catch him off guard. He pauses for a few seconds before his shoulders slump and his hands go limp at his sides. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;&lt;I didn’t wanna come back here. I tried to live out in the world. Funny how no one wants a miniature Apocalypse or a walking Lovecraft horror show. I don’t have any other options. So this place sucked me right back in, like a bloody cult. Tells you you’re only safe there, you try to go out and get shunned, and then you run back to the safety of that same cult. I get why you’ve never been able to stay away.&gt;&gt;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I can feel my jaw clenching, more because his words hit a little too close to home than because I’m actually mad. </span>
</p><p>
  <span><em>&lt;&lt;And I . . .&gt;&gt;</em> He trails off and glances out over the lake, gaze tracking a pair of ducks wading under the dock to settle in for the night. <em>&lt;&lt;I didn’t find what I was looking for. And no, I don’t know what that is. I don’t know if it’s here, either. But . . .&gt;&gt;</em> More silence, then an almost defeated look back at me as I stand so that this doesn’t feel so ludicrous. <em>&lt;&lt;But there’s something here that keeps pulling me back anyway.&gt;&gt;</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s exactly when I feel guitar-calloused fingertips on my lips that whatever anger I’d been holding onto finally just melts away. It’s dumb and the stuff of teenage puppy love, which I’m far past at this point in my life, but I step forward and let him wrap his arms around me anyway. I bury my face against his neck and breathe in leather and shampoo and cigarette smoke. I’ve never understood his habit of lighting cigarettes and just letting them burn down to the filter, but I think it’s a soothing thing, a coping mechanism to help him feel a little like his old self. Gross habits and all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His chest gives against mine, soft and pliant where there should be muscle and bone. The energy doesn’t make a noise, which I’ve always found a little strange, but I can sense it all the same. It glides over my arms, my face, tickling everywhere it touches with just a hint of warmth, like the sun on an early spring morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. He’s got </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>feeling poetic now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s familiar and comfortable and I want to stay like this forever, with my hands up under his jacket and flat against his back, with his head leaning against mine. I want to ask him why, exactly, he came back, but I don’t know if I can stand to hear him tell me it wasn’t for me. I talked him into leaving while I was asleep last time so that I could live in my little fantasy world a little longer. Same rationale now. I just want to believe this is some fairytale romance and he realized he was miserable without me and--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;&lt;I’m a terrible Prince Charming.&gt;&gt;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I laugh against his shoulder and feel his arms tighten around me. “Good. I’m an awful princess.” I get an appreciative squeeze for the trouble, and it’s encouraging enough for me to lean back just enough that I can see his face. He has the saddest eyes, like a basset hound’s, and I can’t stop myself from leaning in to kiss his eyelids. “Don’t go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;&lt;I’ve got nowhere to go. I thought we established that.&gt;&gt;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I shake my head and kiss the spot between his eyebrows, and this time I get a small shiver out of him. “I know. And I’m telling you that I don’t want you to go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even reply. But I feel him reach down to join our hands, manipulating them so that we’re “kissing” in the same way I showed him the last day we were together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s going to break my heart. Again. He’s going to leave at some point, restless and aimless as he is. I’m going to be left with this as a new memory that I can think back on and wonder why I didn’t do more, say more, why I didn’t get more out in the open besides my anger and neediness. Why I didn’t just tell him everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he’ll come back to me. New scars and all. I have to be okay with that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some part of my brain registers when the sun fully sets and the darkness closes in around us. But it’s not the part that’s clearing out all the old memories to make room for this one, to make it as large and vivid as possible so that the next time he comes dragging in after a long absence, I can pluck it out and remind myself why it’s all worth it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’ll leave again. I know he will. He’ll come back with new scars and new excuses, but he’ll come back to me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m okay with that.</span>
</p>
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